


the baby's right and the lover's privilege

by mayor_crumblepot



Series: valeyne / baby batjokes tumblr fills [4]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Love, bruce doesn't understand social cues when it comes to money but thats okay, he's just a lil sweater boy who aint done nothin ever, jerome hasn't committed ANY murders yet, jerome runs a kissing booth at the circus, just two dumb kids finding something warm and nice within one another in a cold fuckin world, like this is so soft you'll die probably maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayor_crumblepot/pseuds/mayor_crumblepot
Summary: prompt fill for the request "wondering if you would consider a fic about jerome BEFORE he went insane? Like sweet boy jerome & bruce? maybe they meet at the carnival?"how could i say no to that?





	the baby's right and the lover's privilege

It isn’t that Jerome doesn’t want to be a snake charmer, like his mother. He knows that he could _definitely_  scare the shit out of a few people, just by having the snake over his shoulders— much more, if he could get the snake to behave herself for him. 

The issue is that becoming a charmer requires his being taught by his mother. And while he can acknowledge that she’s smart, that she’s good at what she does, he can’t find it in himself to want to spend that much time with her. They don’t see eye to eye, she’s always with one man or another, and Jerome knows she doesn’t have time for him.

If that makes him angry, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t show _much._  That’s just what he does; stuff it down, hide it away, he’s got sixty pages in his journal dedicated to what he _could_  be, if he could just get away. But he needs money.

So he opens a kissing booth. 

He’s not old enough to do much more. Barely seventeen and lacking in traditional education; he knows his skills are limited. What he does know, though, is that he’s pretty easy on the eyes. He makes the sign out of pieces of a broken crate, slapping paint on it and putting extra effort into making his handwriting look good. (It takes some effort— one of the S’s almost ends up backwards, but he thinks the finished project isn’t half bad.) 

It takes a few circus stops to figure out the best placement for his booth, but he finds that he gets the most customers right past the food court, near the thrill rides. So, he sets himself up there permanently, lit up by flashing lights and eerie neons. All he has on the counter of his booth is a coffee can for money, but that doesn’t stop him. He can make this work. 

Most of his customers are people his age, thankfully. Sometimes, he gets little kids with their families, and with a mother’s blessing it isn’t all that strange. That’s just how children are. Occasionally, there’s an older woman, a grandmother with absent grandchildren and a hope for a second where she can imagine something better. 

Jerome never knew his grandparents, so he always obliges. 

He isn’t sure if it helps him, but between customers Jerome finds himself people watching. He follows pretty couples, follows nuclear families, drunken brawls, admissions of love and public breakups. There’s just something so riveting about the human drama of it all. 

“Excuse me, how much—” Jerome turns on the charm, hits the nervous, young girl with a smile that’s so careful that it mirrors her own anxiety. He’s good at that, reading people and showing them what they want to see. 

“I usually charge a dollar,” he says, brushing hair out of his face, “but for you? I’ll take fifty cents.” 

It works every time. He finds himself one kiss poorer and a dollar fifty richer. The girl goes back to her friends, giggling, the entire group burning red as they walk away. There’s something rewarding about it, and Jerome can’t help but smile. It’s easy work, it’s fun work, he can’t argue with that. 

One of the girls looks back, and when Jerome notices, he gives her a wave. He intends to follow through with a smile, but suddenly— suddenly there’s something much more important. 

A boy with lemonade in his hands, both hands on the cup as he wanders. He can’t be much younger than Jerome, bearing the same ill fitting clothes and unruly hair that come with a certain age. His eyes are older beyond him, simultaneously unfocused and hyper vigilant— he seems so worried, and Jerome wonders why he would be alone, if he felt that way. 

The boy looks like money. His clothes are too nice and he looks so out of place, as if he’s never been at a carnival before. 

Jerome could stare at this boy all night. Probably would, if it weren’t for the series of people who have finally descended upon his booth. When he looks back out of the carnival, once everyone has left him and he’s twenty dollars richer, the boy is still there. The boy is still out there, perched against a tent as he considers everything around him, as he _heavily_  considers Jerome.

Maybe he thinks Jerome is too far away to notice he’s being stared at. Or, maybe, he thinks Jerome just won’t care. Whatever it is he expects, it leaves him unprepared for the wink and little finger guns that Jerome gives him. 

Jerome is stricken. His heart is stolen. He’ll be thinking about this for weeks— this boy’s face is sparked with pink, and it’s almost as though he thinks he can hide behind his own hands. It doesn’t work, but it effectively endears Jerome to him.

For the rest of the night, the boy continues to linger and Jerome continues to flirt with him shamelessly. As well as he can, considering the circumstances and the distance. The longer the night goes on, the more people disappear, the more Jerome starts to become concerned— surely _someone_  is looking for this boy. He can’t possibly have come alone; there isn’t a residential neighborhood for miles, and no taxis come up to the cliffside where the circus parks itself. Try as he might, Jerome hasn’t been able to get the nervous boy to come over to him.

Finally, he starts to take his tent down. An idea strikes him, as he searches for his step stool, going to take his sign down. It wouldn’t be too big of a fall, just a few feet at best, if he were to just… tumble to the ground. His sign isn’t too heavy, it wouldn’t even knock the air out of him it fell on him— it’ll work. 

When he leans back to unlatch his sign, Jerome sends himself backward just subtly. It starts with uneasy feet, unsteady legs and a concerned glance over his shoulder at the ground; he sets it all up flawlessly. And yet, despite the setup, he’s still surprised to feel hands on the small of his back, holding him upright. 

“That sign doesn’t look very heavy,” the boy says, face twisted like he wants to smile but isn’t entirely sure he should. 

“Oh, it’s not,” Jerome drops it on the booth counter casually, pleased with himself, “but it got you over here, didn’t it?” He hops off of his step stool, landing on the ground with a small gesture of his hands. 

“I always thought circus booths would be more durable than this.” 

“Well, you see,” where he wants to lean up against his booth, Jerome thinks better, “at a dollar a kiss, I don’t exactly make enough for a big fancy booth. I make do.” 

“That’s all you charge?” Nosily, the boy considers all of the money in Jerome’s coffee can. The day’s work comes in just a little under one-hundred, and while it isn’t bad, it’s barely worth standing around for nearly ten hours. 

“What do you advise I charge, then, mister…” Jerome leaves it open, hoping for a name to apply to this perfect face.

“Bruce W—” As Bruce fumbles with his wallet, he thinks better of saying his last name. Just this once, maybe, he can get a chance to be a normal kid. The circus travels between the same seven to ten cities, and Bruce likes to think that maybe Jerome has never heard of him, or the tragedy associated with his name. “It’s Bruce, and I think something closer to this?” In his hand, Bruce has a fifty dollar bill. 

“For that much, I can do you one better,” and _shit_ , Jerome knows how that sounds, in an emptied out carnival, when the lights are finally starting to go out. He hurries to write his phone number on a piece of paper, his name beneath it, because he hopes that will clear any misconceptions up. With a clammy hand, he presses the paper into Bruce’s palm, sneaking a kiss to his cheek before he can decide not to. That’ll do. “You’d better call— I gotta get this stuff taken down.” 

“I— I will, yeah.”

* * *

Where Jerome expects text messages he’ll have to struggle through, he receives phone calls like he’d unwittingly requested. It’s almost romantic, almost like a stupid fucking romantic comedy, but Bruce has an amazing strength for talking on the phone, so Jerome couldn’t possibly turn it down, even if he wanted to. Where the lack of face-to-face and time to prepare leaves Jerome stumbling, Bruce is confident and capable, completely sure of himself, voice swapping between kind softness and businesslike strength. Oh, Jerome’s got it _bad_. 

They make plans to meet one day, when Jerome breaks for food, right outside of the carnival grounds. Jerome walks Bruce past the elephant cages, past the various trailers and campsites. On the way, he stops to leave some of the food in his arms in his mother’s trailer; “Dinner, ma!” and he doesn’t stop to hear if she answers him. It’s better she doesn’t. 

He shoves plenty of carnival fare into Bruce’s hands so that he can gesture grandly at the view behind him. Jerome, with his arms spread wide, stands backlit by the entirety of Gotham, along with most of the grand bridge. The blue sky has started to give way to the building colors of a sunset, and for once, since his parents have died, Bruce feels like he’s allowed to appreciate something, without guilt. 

“So, since you’re rich,” Jerome says, tossing himself down on the sparse grass and gesturing for Bruce to do the same, “I figured you’d never really had fair food before.” 

“That’s a fair assumption,” carefully, he sets out everything Jerome had brought. When Jerome starts pulling cans of soda out of his tucked in sweater, Bruce can’t help but laugh, a tittering giggle that leaves Jerome breathless. 

“I brought you _the classics—”_  and as Jerome starts to list off various fried foods with a terrible French accent, Bruce can’t hold it together. It’s just too much, too silly, too easy and perfect and he wonders why he’s never felt this way before. Playfully indignant, Jerome crosses his arms in front of his chest, “Like you could do any better!” 

“I _speak_  French, I have a tutor,” Bruce realizes, belatedly, how absolutely uppity this makes him sound. He bites down on the straw he’s plunked into a can of soda, averts his eyes 

“No shit?” He’s smiling, dropping his chin into his hands, staring at Bruce with moon-eyes, “Care to share?” Jerome points at various foods, elated to hear Bruce identify them in French, sometimes cycling through other words to find the right one. It’s all very cute, making terrible foods sound extremely fancy. 

None of the foods compare to the way Bruce makes them sound, but Jerome is happy to just watch Bruce try new things. Excitedly, he watches the way Bruce responds to everything Jerome puts in his hands. He almost forgets to eat something himself, he’s so distracted. 

The sun has come down, the area around them is only lit by moonlight and the light pollution from the carnival lamps— Bruce feels like he’s been missing out on something so beautiful, he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to find it. 

“Can I ask a question?” Bruce asks, turning to look at Jerome, who has folded up on himself as he looks out over the cliff. 

“Of course,” he adjusts his sweater, shifting only slightly, “but it’s one for one. You get an answer, I get an answer.” 

“That sounds fair.” Of course, Bruce immediately dreads the notion of questions, of what they possibly could be, but he powers on, “Why are you _here?”_

 _“_ You mean the circus?” When Bruce nods, Jerome just shrugs, “I was born here. My brother and I both. Mom’s a snake charmer— ain’t that neat?” Although the cold has started to push through the dense knit of his sweater, Jerome can’t stop himself from pulling his hands out from beneath his arms, gesturing with them. “Jeremiah’s long gone, he’s some kinda ‘ _kid genius.’_ Got sent to a school somewhere in Gotham, I don’t know where. Neither does mom. He got out, so I stayed behind. The whole family is here, expecting me to stay _forever._  I gotta get money together before I can get out, too.”

“But you want out?” 

“Yeah, I mean,” Jerome gestures around him, at the various campsites, at the shitty little trailers, barely big enough for one person, let alone two, “who wouldn’t?” And as soon as the speck of emotion has come, it’s gone again, covered by a smile and a laugh, “That totally counts as two questions, by the way. I’ll let it slide, though, ‘cause you’re so cute.” 

“You’re such a flirt. Go ahead, sorry.” Draining this soda, Bruce moves on to another can because Alfred _never_  buys soda for the manor. Ever. If it bothers Jerome at all, he makes no mention of it.

“Why were you here alone the other day?” He drops down, onto his back, looking upside down at the circus tent, the distant lights. It’s further away, like this; distant. When Bruce joins him there, on his back in the grass, Jerome feels more present than he ever has before. It’s nice. 

“It’s got layers,” Bruce sighs, stretching his hands out in front of him, up at the sky, “and it’s dumb.” 

“Luckily for you, I’m considered a connoisseur of dumb things,” when Jerome laughs, Bruce does, too.

“Um, well. My— my parents died. Not that long ago. It was a whole— god,” the words that Bruce chokes on feel unreasonably difficult, unfairly hard, and why _here_? “It was a whole _thing_. My— the — Alfred. My butler, my _guardian_. He’s been there, and he’s great, he’s amazing, and patient, but he doesn’t take any shit,” he laughs, dropping his arms onto his stomach weakly, “it’s just been he and I. In this giant house. I’ve been doing dumb things, making bad decisions, and he can be— he can be overbearing, because of that.” 

“What kind of dumb things?”

“Doesn’t matter—” Limply, Bruce reaches over to smack Jerome’s chest with the back of his hand, smirking, “it’s rude to interrupt.”

“Sorry, darlin’,” he takes the hand on his chest, holds it loosely, “go ahead.” 

It takes a second for Bruce to find his words again, eyes looking around the sky for some kind of guidance. He doesn’t find it, but that’s alright, “I just— I wanted a break. I had one of the chauffeurs drive me, without telling him.” 

“That’s not that dumb,” Jerome finally says, and Bruce can feel his voice reverberating in his chest, bouncing around in the hollow ribcage, “I mean, I tried to pierce my lip last week.” What Jerome wants to say is that he understands, that he doesn’t know how to cope with the feeling that he’s being left behind by his family every time he turns around, that he feels hopeless when he looks at the money he’s been saving up. He wants to say that he can help, he wants to say that he has something to offer Bruce, something worth having— instead he makes Bruce laugh, because that’s safe, that’s something he knows he can do. 

“Why would you do that?” Rolling onto his side, Bruce stares intently at Jerome’s face, trying to find aftermath of what he’s claiming to have done. 

“I don’t know,” he smiles, turns to look at Bruce and finds something he could figure himself out for, “sometimes I just have to _do_  things. Dye my hair, sew weird sleeves onto a shirt— you know, whatever.” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” Bruce reaches for Jerome’s hair, runs his fingers through the bangs, “that you’re not a natural redhead?”

“’Course I am. Ma was so mad about the green, though, I got my ass handed to me.” 

“Oh, god, I can’t believe you did _green_ ,” as he continues to run his fingers through Jerome’s hair, Bruce realizes that he could _definitely_  get used to this. This reciprocated feeling of want, this conversation that goes back and forth without hovering on who he is, on what’s happened to him, this person who is so interesting, so unassuming, so remarkable. 

“I figured, you know,” Jerome leans into Bruce’s hand, brings himself that much closer, “go big or go home.” 

Bruce shifts around, swaps his hands around so that he’s more comfortably positioned on the ground, and Jerome ends up with his thumb ghosting over a burned palm. He’ll have to ask about that, sometime. “How much are you trying to save up before you can leave?” Bruce asks, letting Jerome play with his hand idly. 

“Shit, I don’t know. A couple thousand,” he counts numbers off on Bruce’s fingertips. “I’ve got about a thousand right now. I could probably get by with two, and I won’t have to work much longer, to get there.”

“What exactly is your plan?” 

“I’ve got it all figured out,” Jerome grins, megawatt smile enough to spark Bruce’s heart on fire. “I want an apartment, my own bedroom, my own four walls. God, a _bathroom_  all to myself. There’s gonna be a— I have this painting, my mom hates it. I’m taking it with me, and it’s going _right_  over my bed, as soon as I have my own place,” the way he talks, all fast and frantic, hands shaking as he gestures and points out into the void; it’s precious to Bruce. He wants to feel the way Jerome does, wants to see the simplest things through his manic eyes. “I’m gonna do _whatever_  I want, I’ll — I’ll — I’ll sing in the shower, I’ll walk around at two in the morning, I’ll eat whenever the fuck I want! It’s going to be great, Bruce, I—” 

When Bruce kisses Jerome, he can feel the other boy still trying to form words under his lips. So excited, so full of life and enthusiasm, Jerome can’t help himself— he smiles right against Bruce’s mouth, holds him by the waist and kisses him back fiercely. It’s a bit of a mess, the two of them trying to compensate for their strange position, for their shaking hands. Neither of them could care less about any of it. 

“Let me give you the money,” Bruce says when he pulls back, barely inches away from Jerome’s mouth, “please?”

“I— No, you— That’s a _lot_  of money, Brucie, I can’t—” 

“I’m a _billionaire_ ,” he snorts, kissing Jerome again, quickly, “it’s nothing. Really.” 

“Show off,” Jerome’s voice disappears into Bruce’s mouth, his hand now resting on the back of Bruce’s neck. 

“I can give you that much _right_  now,” when Bruce reaches for his wallet, Jerome mourns the loss of contact, but keeps himself quiet, “I have it. Cash.” 

“Why the _fuck_  do you have that much on you,” as he catches sight of the series of one-hundred dollar bills Bruce is pulling out of his wallet, Jerome wheezes, “Bruce, holy shit, I—”

“I always keep this much on me, for emergencies.”

“I am _not_  an emergency.”

“If it’s somehow insulting, I won’t force you, but—”

“It’s totally not insulting,” Jerome sits up to meet Bruce, who has sat up on his knees to count the bills casually, “I just can’t believe— I don’t know why—”

“You don’t seem happy,” is all Bruce says, frowning deeply, as if that’s explanation enough. 

There’s something there, something that Jerome might never be able to comprehend. Maybe it’s because he’s been brought up so poorly, surrounded by _no, that’s too expensive,_  by _we don’t need that_ , by _maybe next year, not right now, when you’re older you’ll understand, we just need enough to get by._  Maybe, it’s because he, himself, has been the disappointment that has kept his mother down, because he couldn’t disappear like his brother did, off to do great and beautiful things. It’s a misunderstanding of values, of the fact that Jerome, too, deserves to be happy, simply because he exists. Simply because he’s been brought into this world, against his will, thrust violently into the throes of a world that can’t be bothered to care about him; he still deserves to be happy. His humanity is his worth and he’s never going to see it quite as clearly as Bruce does, but god, maybe Bruce can show him. 

“Okay, I mean,” laughing, Jerome suddenly feels too hot in his sweater, “okay. Yeah. I— I can get out tonight, pack my bags, I— You’re serious?” 

“Of course. You made me happy,” Bruce has a beautiful conviction in the way he talks, a sincerity that can only be worn down with time, and Jerome wonders just how he hasn’t already lost it, considering what he’s been through, “and I want you to be happy, too. Like I said, it’s a drop in the bucket, really.” Holding out a stack of bills, definitely more than a thousand dollars in hand, Bruce looks painfully naive. Jerome knows better. 

The bills are crisp, perfectly pressed, totally clean. Jerome has never held money _this_  nice. Everything he has is rumpled singles, a several-pound jar of quarters. 

“You’re amazing,” Jerome tells him, still a bit frantic as he tries to make it to his feet. Bruce helps him, so very gently, and is surprised when Jerome lingers behind long enough to kiss him. It’s hard and fast, but it means something. It means _don’t go anywhere, i’m coming right back._ What a beautiful feeling, to be something for someone else to want to come back to.

He knows that Alfred will probably chastise him for acting so impulsively. For putting money into the hands of someone he doesn’t even know. For foolishly following some random boy into a secluded area, where something could have happened to him. Deep down, he knows Alfred will be right, he knows that the good outcome he sees before him isn’t born of any intelligence on his part, merely luck. 

And maybe that’s okay. 

Bruce will never learn if he doesn’t stand in the face of failure. He’ll never be able to grow unless he puts himself out there, doing as much as he can for someone else. It’s not charity, it’s good faith, it’s a loving heart trying to find something to believe in.

It’s a lot to put on Jerome’s shoulders, but what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.  Bruce doesn’t expect anything in return, except to be able to see Jerome flourish. That isn’t too much to ask, he doesn’t think. 

Even if it all ends in fire and flames and broken hearts, it’s okay. Because Bruce knows what it’s like to feel left behind by your name, to be alone in a room full of relatives; he wants to help Jerome, because he cares about him. If it kills him, then he figures that’s quite a way to go. 

Bruce stares into the abyss. It stares right back, with red hair and a neon smile. Instead of hovering at the edge, he dives head first. 

“I’ll help you carry your bags,” he says, jogging up to meet the other, and when Jerome takes his hand, it feels like things will fall into place, eventually. 

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: this jerome can't read. not very well. i have a few universes where my jerome can't read, but this is the first fic where i've been able to put that into the world. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


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